Dear 25-Year-Old Me,

First of all, put down the tweezer. Yes, that one. The over-plucking phase you're in? It doesn't end well. Trust me - your eyebrows will never fully recover, and by the time you're 47, you'll be spending good money on serums, pencils, and probably a slightly unhinged search for the perfect microblading artist. Good news, we found one.

Let's get to the juicy part: you're going to be divorced. Gasp! But don't panic - it's not the end of your story, it's a plot twist that gives you the best material for dinner parties (and therapy). You'll cry, you'll rage, you'll eat questionable amounts of junk food while Googling "Can you die from heartbreak?" But you'll also rediscover the woman you buried under compromise. And she is absolutely fantastic. You'll love her. Promise.

By 47, you'll be in the mysterious land of perimenopause. That means your body will basically become a chaotic sorority house. One minute you're sobbing at a dog food commercial, the next you're in a rage because someone left the cap off the toothpaste. Periods become unpredictable ninja attacks. You'll sweat in places you didn't know you had sweat glands. And sleep? She becomes an elusive ex-lover you keep trying to win back.

Oh, and your boobs? They'll rebel. Gravity wins. You'll invest in bras that feel more like industrial scaffolding. And don't even get me started on chin hairs! You'll wake up one day with a lone, wiry hair that wasn't there yesterday. It's your new nemesis. Name it. Battle it.

But here's the beautiful twist: you'll care so much less what people think. You'll reinvent yourself and become unrecognizable. You'll laugh louder, speak your mind more, and wear whatever makes you feel good (even if it's stretchy pants and orthopedic sneakers). You'll make peace with not having it all figured out.

You'll still dance in the kitchen. You'll still get crushes. You'll learn that joy doesn't come from being perfect or married or wrinkle-free. It comes from knowing yourself, liking yourself - even when you're melting in a hot flash and can't remember why you walked in the room.

So breathe, baby girl. It's going to be a mess, but it's going to be your mess. And it will be hilarious, embarrassing, powerful, and uniquely beautiful.

Love,

Your 47-Year-Old Self

(Queen of Resilience, Awkward Dancing, and Emergency Tweezers)